


Once again the paradoxes

by harryanthus



Series: One Side Conversations [2]
Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: 2am shenanigans, Alternate Universe, Drabble, Established Harry Styles/Louis Tomlinson, Established Relationship, Ficlet, I REGRET NOTHING, Letters, Louis can't spell, M/M, another 1000 words of aimless stuff, he writes a lot of shit, lots of striking, there's a mention of piss
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-29
Updated: 2020-09-29
Packaged: 2021-03-07 18:34:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,281
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26712277
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/harryanthus/pseuds/harryanthus
Summary: Louis can’t sleep. He writes back to Harry.
Relationships: Harry Styles/Louis Tomlinson
Series: One Side Conversations [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1940263
Kudos: 6





	Once again the paradoxes

~~My Darling,~~

My longing lover,

I often lay awake way past my bedtime, if you can call it that, wondering about us.

We’re a paradoxical pair aren’t we? Me with my glumness as a façade and you with your cheeriness. We both wear opposite masks that coordinate. _Juxtaposition_ is one word for it I suppose.

It is nearing two am. I don’t like the dark very much, I prefer the colder mornings, all chilly tiles and sleepy warmth in my bones.

I apologise, I am not as good as you with words, certainly not when I have to put them down. I prefer more talking than beating around the bush. It feeds my pride that I can take anything head on.

You, my dear, my love, are a sly fox. You bait, you lure, you take your time and bring them out of hiding, collecting each grain of trust only to bury them under it.

I am envious of that talent of yours. I lunge for the throat and rip out jugulars but you, you pull them apart vein by vein, minute enough to not catch immediate attention but vast enough to render them helpless once they identify it. If they even identify it, it might be too late for some, oddly I have no pity for them in all of my heart.

I read your letter. More than once honestly. I couldn’t understand the fear you bear over aging. In all my optimism, I look forward to being useless and decaying away so I can feel this _misery_ that poets and lovers toss around, crying pretty words and filling up books about it.

I will admit, your texts never bring me any anguish, on the contrary they make me itch for more, you know very well how to keep a man bound to you. You have your charm, love. 

They make me smile a lot, enough to cause those abhorrent crinkles by my eyes. I take it you might understand the graveness of my word. You are attracting and repelling me in the same breath, same inhale, same exhale.

So far I have been beating around the bush. I don’t remember much of your letter except for the heavy moodiness it carried, sullen and dramatic— oh! Also that patch of grey in your curls you kept moaning about.

I assure you darling, I find you appealing just the same, sometimes more than the others but let’s not bring that up. I already have trouble sleeping tonight.

Without you my nights are dreadfully boring— I picked up a book, something I found lying around. It was weird for a lack of better word. ~~Talked about a girl pissing in wolf blood and getting aroused by it.~~

I took a walk after reading that.

But all things aside, the last line I read before I could digest no more without kink-shaming, it talked about sexuality and urges.

They’re wonderful things aren’t they? 

Take a nipple for instance. It is nothing that provokes any sort of emotion in me. I am mostly impartial to it. Except I see yours, sometimes rosy, sometimes dusky brown, sometimes just blood darkened and I feel a pool of heat. 

Be mindful of the sometimes.

Others it is very _natural_. Like you pull up your shirt to tie the strings of your long, long pyjamas and I see a flash of pretty pink brown nub and feel an overwhelming surge of fondness overcome me.

We are complex beings but also very simple.

Once again the paradoxes. 

You spend your letter writing about yourself and I spend my letter _not_ writing about myself which inevitably ends up being about you muddled by other ~~miscel~~ ~~miscela~~ miscellaneous topics.

It took me a lot of effort and stress to spell ~~misce~~ miscellaneous. DO NOT MOCK ME!!!

Since I am talking about you, as I have been doing since the past six years of my life, I ponder, how will we act around each other once we end it all.

I then had a stroke of realisation. Maybe we’ll stop acting around each other. I don’t wish to know which is worse, darling.

I had this thought about relationships and how it becomes a duty to keep them up but that is not what they are supposed to be, are they? I wonder how relationships become business transactions, how a kiss in front of family is equivalent to rivals being polite in the public. ~~Rivals~~? 

Rivals might be too strong of a comparison but you get my point. I hope you do. You’ve listened to a lot of my nonsense for this to make sense.

I write about you too, I take your anger and put it into a song and never think about it again. I don’t like dwelling on the past, it gives you wrinkles or so my stylist says.

 ~~He would look better if he followed his own advice~~. That was mean of me, you never saw it.

This might not match the poetry you’ve sent me, I fear nothing matches yours my love, but here is something I wrote in memory of you.

_You are a cross somewhere between fading memories and a fever dream all blending into one big yellow, sparkly, paper with constellations scattering out into stars burning and burning, reducing to a burst of hydrogen, helium, clouds of dust becoming a nebula._

_You are all restless energy evolving into something lilac tinged, calming into a violent ocean, unsettled, to a spent out babe, a myriad of emotions flickering past like summer days, aware of everything and nothing, a zap of heat, phantoms of memory, the whispering devil in my brain, the claws of desire sunk into bone._

_You, in all of these, are home._

Your mother rang me. I intended to tell you this much earlier in the letter. It slipped my mind. She was worried about you bawling your eyes out alone in that big bad house of ours.

I am too. It is horrible that we can’t always stay together. Write to me more to take your mind off it. I will read everything, I will not promise I will remember all of it but I will read. 

Promise. ~~:-]~~ It would be easier if I could draw emojis, half my agony would vanish.

Since I was reading or at least attempting to, I found this poem.  _ More like Felix found it and I read it over his shoulder and thought of you  _ but nonetheless it reminded me of you.

_ He had green eyes, _

_ so I wanted to sleep with him— _

_ green eyes flecked with yellow, dried leaves on the surface of a pool- _

_ You could drown in those eyes, I said. _

_ The fact of his pulse, _

_ the way he pulled his body in, out of shyness or shame or a desire _

_ not to disturb the air around him. _

_ Everyone could see the way his muscles worked, _

_ the way we look like animals, _

_ his skin barely keeping him inside. _

_ I wanted to take him home _

_ and rough him up and get my hands inside him, drive my body into his _

_ like a crash test car. _

_ I wanted to be wanted and he was _

_ very beautiful, kissed with his eyes closed, and only felt good while moving. _

_ You could drown in those eyes, I said, _

_ so it’s summer, so it’s suicide, _

_ so we’re helpless in sleep and struggling at the bottom of the pool. _

This is by Richard Siken apparently. I think I’ve seen you reading his poetry.

My bed is calling to me. Either I am sleepy or delirious.

Picking the better of two, I am going to bed. 

With love,

your dearest lover.


End file.
